


with grace in your heart and flowers in your hair

by caracaracaramel



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Historical RPF
Genre: (kinda), First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Historical Lams, Internalised Homophobia, Lams - Freeform, M/M, alsO john really loves art, also flower crowns, also im bad at summaries im sorry, and all the nicknames, because i am weak for nicknames, because im a loser, because... flower crowns, excessive descriptions of sunrises, hamilton called john “j” in a letter if im not mistaken, just... read and you'll see :), use it!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-09 01:22:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11093955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caracaracaramel/pseuds/caracaracaramel
Summary: In which John Laurens learns to appreciate the simple joys in life, such as sunrises...and the opportunities presented with a field full of daisies.





	with grace in your heart and flowers in your hair

**Author's Note:**

> (Title from After The Storm - Mumford & Sons)

*

  
  
  


Days as sunny as these are becoming a fairly common occurrence as of late, and John cannot bring himself to mind very much. While still miles away from stifling childhood summers in Charleston, the pleasant weather seems to lift everyone's spirits...including Alexander's, of course. Which is how John finds himself dragged out of his cot practically every morning before daybreak by his eager friend, barely having time to stuff his feet in his boots or find a ribbon for his hair before he is being pulled out into the pale dawn. The field is a vast, green expanse of possibility, from the grass to the scattered ferns, and glimmering dewdrops, emeralds on the blades of fragrant grass. In the midst of such bleakness and frustration and endless horror, nature still manages to comfort John. He thinks wistfully of his pastels, and his charcoal, and of lazy, lion days spent sketching and admiring flowers and fish and not much else, really.    
  
He misses those days.    
  


Alexander laces his fingers into John's, smiling softly as they walk. He swings their hands between them a little and John chuckles, ducks his head, does not mention how much he would like to rub the pad of his thumb in circles on the back of Alexander's hand, map out every bump, every callous, every contour, and then bring that hand to his lips so he can press a kiss to each and every knuckle, and then each fingertip, and then to the delicate palm, and do the exact same with his other hand...John's chest tightens; he takes a deep breath. Pushes all these unwanted thoughts out of sight, out of mind.  _ Not again, not after Francis...  _ __  
  


They flop onto the grass eventually, and Alexander arranges himself so that he lies perpendicular to John, resting his head atop the taller man's stomach. John props himself up on one elbow, hand at the nape of his neck, stares at Alexander as he stretches and yawns, cat-like.    
  


"News?" John prompts, even though they have not spent a moment apart since the latest letter arrived last night to the General's tent.   
  


"No news." John can hear the smile curling around Alexander's words.  "How about yourself?"    
  
"What about me, there?"   
  
Alex rolls his head to the side so he is facing John, those violet-blue eyes boring into his. "Oh, you know. Your regiment that you're so ardent about these days." A rakish grin that definitely does not make John's breath catch. Then, "Has your father written you yet?"    
  
"Ah, no." John expels air in a hot stream through his nostrils. "He should have replied by now," added as an afterthought.    
  
Alex squints at him, flecked nose crinkling up. "He will have done. The post can be rather tardy."    
  


John sighs. "S'pose so."   
  
"In any case," Alex heaves himself up, sways a little on his feet at the brisk movement, "don't take it to heart. He cares about you, and he always replies." A shadow passes over Alex's face, then. "He always replies," he repeats, to himself more than anyone else.    
  


"Alex..."   
  
But the shadow is gone now, replaced instead by an expression of quiet, tired delight. John furrows his brows as Alex drops to his knees in the grass: "ah...daisies!"    
  
John snorts. "Daisies, Hamilton?"    
  
Alex looks over to him, nods sagely. "Daisies," he says solemnly, and then proceeds to pick about all of the flowers within a ten foot radius as John looks on, amused.    
  


" _ Il est fou, ce petit lion _ ," he muses under his breath, fully expecting the handful of grass thrown at him a moment later.    
  
Alex drops back down to the ground and sits cross-legged, carefully deposits the daisies in a bundle beside his left knee, plucks one from the pile. He then sets about piercing the bottom of the stem with his nail and threading another flower through the hole he has created.    
  
John frowns. "A daisy chain, Ham?"   
  
Alex doesn't look up; eases another daisy through a new hole. "A daisy chain indeed, my dear J."    
  
A comfortable silence ensues, Alex threading and perforating, John reclining back on his elbow, watching. The sky is starting to lighten with the first signs of sunrise, and a warbling birdsong can be heard from afar as the world slowly wakes up. The sun languidly begins its steady climb upwards as the azure sky strengthens slowly, streaked with orange and reddish hues. The easy morning glow washes over the field, washes over Alexander, and John longs even more for his sketchbook, so he could attempt in vain to capture the ethereal beauty before him: the bright auburn of his hair, the curve of his half-opened mouth, tongue poking out slightly in concentration, the clusters of freckles that spread across his impressive nose, his deft, ink-stained fingers. And, oh, his eyes. Eyes the colour of the sky, currently, deep and purpling and just as easy to get lost in.     
  
Eventually, the heap of blossoms dwindles and wanes, and Alex finishes the chain by tying the ends together, bringing it full circle.    
  


"That's hardly a chain, Alex," John remarks, sitting himself up and shaking out his arm, which has gone rather numb after all of the time spent leaning on it.    
  
Alex blinks, as if he'd forgotten where he was. "Oh, I changed my mind.” He shrugs. "Happens to the best of us."    
  


"Alright, well, what shall you do with that, then?"    
  
Alexander just grins, almost wickedly, and, before John can protest, has tackled him back to the ground and straddled his hips, effectively pinning him down. John sips in a harsh breath, tries to ignore how wildly his heart is thumping due to this sudden action. Alex is scrawny and John is strong but neither seems to matter when Alex is looking at him  _ like that, _ with that  _ leer _ and those  _ eyes _ and when he stoops down, teeth bared in his impish smile, one brow quirked-   
  
-Stoops down and places the circle of daisies on John's hair, feather-light, before his face breaks into a genuine beam so bright, so infectious that John finds himself beaming right back, although he is still quite perplexed about the whole daisy situation. He gestures towards his head, "what's this?"    
  


"A crown fit for a king, of course," comes the triumphant reply.    
  
"Fit for a king..."   
  


"Fit for  _ my _ king," Alex says, and perhaps it was meant to come out smug, teasing, but instead it comes out rather tender, and he plants a swift kiss on the tip of John's nose to further confirm his words. John blushes - surely he didn't mean anything by it - Alex always flirts, would flirt with everything and anything that can move, but...John inhales a shaky breath, takes a second to collect himself.    
  
"Well then, you must be a prince," he says, playing along, "I suppose we must find you some equally suitable headwear," and props himself back up, Alex still in his lap.    
  
The newly dubbed "prince" smirks with delight, as John glances around quickly before spotting a bloom that Alex must have somehow missed in his flower-picking frenzy; he reaches out to pick it, then tucks it behind Alex's ear, stroking a fleeting finger over his cheekbone before retreating his hand fully, brusquely self-aware, and Alex heaves a sigh and relaxes into him a little, eyes drooping closed. He can't have imagined that. No.    
  
"Well, don't you look a picture," John murmurs, slightly in awe at how perfectly the flushed petals compliment Alexander's equally coloured cheeks, and his prince lets out a long, pleased sort of sigh and shudders.    
  
The sun is edging its way into view, and the dawn light, rosy and pale, makes Alex positively glow, and with his tawny lashes fanned out against his pink, pink cheeks and his arms loosely encircling John's waist, John's self-control vanishes entirely and he has to press a small, chaste kiss to Alex's dry, upturned lips. Alex's eyes flicker open in surprise, but he does not pull away. John could brush it off as a cordial action, nothing more, a display of platonic affection towards his dearest friend, and it would be forgotten, never to be spoken about again; but he is suddenly tired of putting on this act, of constantly pretending, of feeling sick and nauseous and wanting it to be over, this hunger that rips through his bones, monstrous, because he knows it will never, ever end - knew with, with Francis - knows now...And so he leans in with another quick kiss, and another, and then he lingers for a moment too long and Alex's arms tighten around his waist and he feels he is done for, yet...   
  


"Tell me to stop," John says, voice barely above a whisper; the world around them seems to have stilled in its stirring, watching, waiting with bated breath.   
  


Alex says nothing, and John leans, brushes his mouth against the hollow of his temple, "tell me, now." Ghosts his lips over Alex's jaw. "Or now." Traces the sharp line of his cheekbone. "Or now..." Hovers back over Alex's mouth, so close their breath mingles and he can practically taste the heat on Alex's tongue.    
  
"Or-"    
  


Alexander reaches up and pulls John down to him, and the rest of his words are lost in Alex's mouth. Alex kisses him gently, carefully, as if he cannot quite believe it, as if he is afraid; but it is suddenly not gentleness that John wants, not after all this time, and so his hands creep up of their own accord and fist into the front of Alex's waistcoat, curl around the cold buttons. Alex makes a low sort of growl at this, and John almost breaks off completely, convinced he's gone too far, but then Alex deepens the embrace, legs bracing around John's hips, and John's dark doubtful thoughts dissolve into pleasant nothingness as Alex shifts, tries to find a better angle. John gathers the smaller man against him and then they are rolling over on the grass, tangled together, still kissing as though their lives depend on it.    
  


The watery first rays of aurora sunshine cast a dusty brilliance upon the scene, as the sun carries with it the torch of a new day; golden radiance spills over them both, and John wishes time would halt, wants nothing more than to feel Alexander's crimson lips on his own and the amber light on his skin forever, wants to never hear anything again that isn't the soft sound of mouth on mouth, or the little sighs and hums of enjoyment coming from his comrade. But, as it is, time ticks on, does not cease, and neither does Alex - John suppresses a startled noise when he feels his tongue lick a line from one corner of his lips to the other, and then finds his mouth opening, welcoming the intrusion, and Alex's tongue edges into it and  _ Alexander's tongue is in his mouth _ and his mind goes shockingly blank.    
  


Francis never did this, never took this much time or care, was always hasty and short-lived, never even kissed John properly before - the closest he got was having Francis latching his lips onto his neck, wetly, but more so to muffle his grunts as John brought him off than out of real affection - and John needs to stop, wants to stop, stop thinking about Francis when Alexander is here now, and, oh, how this feels so wonderful...so much better than Francis...typically, John would be disgusted at himself for dragging yet another person down with him, for irreversibly corrupting his dear Alex with his unholy desires, but his mind must be too clouded with early-morning drowsiness for rational thoughts...    
  
He jolts back to the present all at once and quite pleasantly when Alexander's tongue makes contact with his own, and John mollifies considerably, his tension and inhibitions dissipating in a thrice.    
  
John finds he rather  _ likes _ kissing.     
  
He feels dizzy, light-headed, suddenly unsure of what to do, never really having ever gotten this far - Alex, obviously, has done this far more times than he has prior to this occasion, albeit with rather more feminine companions...still, John, naturally, lets him take control; finds himself unable to do much, anyway, when Alex runs his tongue along his back molars, exploring, right around his mouth, tasting the spaces behind his teeth, and then, and then, sucks on John's tongue  _ like that _ , and- and John hears himself  _ moan _ , helpless, a pleased little " _ hm! _ " sound, and there it is, the creeping fear surges within him once more, but the noise only seems to spur Alex onwards. John feels a hand leave his waist to twist into his hair, mussing up his queue, and he knows the wreath of daisies has been knocked askew, but that thought disappears almost immediately when Alex tugs at his hair, fingernails lightly digging into his scalp, and he whimpers again, flails, and then their noses are colliding - and the spell is broken. Neither of them mind.   
  
They grin and renegotiate positions, still laying side by side in the fresh, slightly damp grass. The sun has almost risen fully, its insipid light shining brighter by the minute. Alex sighs contentedly and buries his face into John's neck, and John can feel his smile against his skin, the flower still miraculously behind Alex's ear tickling his chin. John stretches out an arm, gropes blindly around them in the general direction of where he last saw his own crown, fishes it out from underneath Alex's back after several moments, and Alexander  _ giggles _ , a merry little sound, into John's shoulder. John is struck, then, by how tight his breast feels, by how much pure, untainted adoration he has for the man beside him, and Alex ducks his nose into John's cheek, almost in a nuzzle, and John's hand finds the small of his back and pulls Alex flush against him, so close he can feel his companion's own racing heartbeat matching his.    
  
Alex looks up, then, with those indigo eyes, and snatches the wilting flower crown from John's grip, jams it playfully back over John's ears. A small breeze has picked up, rustling the viridescent fern leaves. John absent-mindedly strokes Alexander's leonine curls with long, idle fingers, breathes in the sweet scent of his hair. And they lie, hand in hand, heart in heart, listening to the world come alive. The war, all of a sudden, could not be further from John's mind. Especially not when Alex tilts his head up and deposits a soft kiss just underneath John's jaw, lips remaining there a little longer than necessary, and then says something, a bit muffled, and John blinks, tries to focus.   
  
"Pardon?"    
  
Alexander swats at his forearm, jestingly, and reiterates: " _ Good morning! _ "    
  
John blinks again, but smiles to himself, "Oh. Yes. Good morning to you, too, Alex. Good morning..."    
  
Far off in the distance, a bird calls out to its mate, receives a singsong reply, as two men, lying in a field full of daisies, greet each other as if they have only just met; the sun, gleeful, merely shines on. 

  
  
  


*

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading this! This is one of the first proper fanfictions i've written - excuse any mistakes or inconsistencies! The dialogue and overall language was meant to stay true to the time period it is set in, but i fear that i may have not done a very accurate job at this. Let's call it...anachronistic? ;)
> 
> If you're looking for the French:  
> "Il est fou, ce petit lion" -> "he is crazy, this little lion"  
> (And i am a native French speaker so i can only hope that i got such a small thing right. :D)
> 
> Anyway, yes, these are the infamous Alexander Hamilton and John Laurens, probably most well-known now due to "Hamilton: An American Musical", and although i love how they are represented so diversely there, and absolutely still love Hamilton, oh my god, come scream with me about it anytime, i am... more attached to their historical appearances on account of the fact that i'm a HUGE historical nerd, haha :D. And this is why their descriptions in this might conflict with how some people view them, so i apologise for that...one day, i will attempt to write something without such specific descriptions, so people may interpret it however they wish. :)
> 
> Also here i do heavily allude to john's relationship with a certain francis kinloch - if you'd like to find out more about this, john-laurens on tumblr explains it far better than i ever will be able to, so go check that out! Again, sorry if it seemed very off or out-of-place, internal monologues are not my forte because i never know how much - or how little - to reveal! :^)
> 
> And again, thank you so much for reading! Until next time...


End file.
